


hope the whole denial thing works out

by Cinaed



Series: Days of Donut [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blow Jobs, Denial, Denial of Feelings, First Time, M/M, Size Kink, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 02:12:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18714418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: Donut looks like a cross between a football quarterback and a model. He’s got thick, wavy hair, broad shoulders, a jaw like it’s been carved from marble, and a pouting mouth half-lost under a beard. If there was a girl around, she’d probably call Donut hot, like unfairly hot, likeholy fuckhot.There’s just Simmons though, who makes a startled wheezing sound, trying to remember how to breathe.--Simmons is bad at decisions butexcellentat denial.





	hope the whole denial thing works out

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I wrote a lot of fic for Rare Pairs, enough that I'm calling my offering "Days of Donuts" because it's pretty much all Donut ships. This is set vaguely in nebulous early seasons pre-surgery. 
> 
> Thanks goes out to Aryashi for the encouragement and helping me make this fic better, and to the fan guide for giving me Donut the Enchanter, and to creatrixanimi for giving me my Donut [facecast](https://creatrixanimi.tumblr.com/post/174864322957/for-a-taller-tale-because-she-sent-me-this-post) for this.

Simmons doesn’t make decisions rashly. He tends to look at all of his options, get overwhelmed, and then delay until the decision is out of his hands. It’s one reason he joined the military. Military is structure, a clear chain of command, a routine. Simmons can’t be overwhelmed by choices when he doesn’t have any.

Of course, when he enlisted, he never considered that he might end up in Blood Gulch, where their enemies are incompetent, his fellow soldiers are idiots, and his superior officer is...well, _unique_ in his strategies. The closest thing to a routine the other Reds have is their habits, which Simmons has observed enough to build his own routine around. At this time of evening, Sarge is shouting threats on the top of the base, either at Grif or across at the Blues or, more likely, at both parties; Lopez is in sleep mode; and Donut is trying to improve base morale by making their MREs look more appetizing.

That means there’s a high probability for privacy. Simmons sighs in relief as he hangs up his towel on the wall just outside the communal showers and steps inside, his shower sandals squeaking on the tile. Even with the armor’s internal air-conditioning, he still works up a sweat from all of the drills Sarge has them do.

He’s testing the temperature with his hand when a voice behind him exclaims in delighted excitement, “Oh boy, Simmons, are we gonna be shower buddies tonight?”

Simmons is pretty sure that his startled squawk is muffled by the running water. He turns off the shower, annoyance and embarrassment warring for dominance. Both make his face hot. He glares at the wall, resisting the urge to slink along it and grab for his towel.

Donut shouldn’t be here. He takes showers immediately after drills. It’s a habit that Simmons knows all too well, because he’s heard Grif bitch about Donut using up all the hot water every day since Donut arrived.

“Go away, Donut,” Simmons snaps.

“Aw, come on, Simmons. I was working over Lopez and the lube is all over me!”

Simmons hisses through his gritted teeth. He doesn’t turn to face Donut, all too aware that he’s naked, but he does turn his head a little, in order to glare in Donut’s direction. “I don’t care, it’s _my_ turn for the shower, so you can just--” The rest of his words are forgotten as Donut steps closer and comes into focus.

Simmons hasn’t really wondered what Donut looks like behind the helmet, not like he’s wondered about Grif and Sarge, but if he was pressed, he probably would’ve gone with a face and body to match the voice, something slender and with muscles built over time through Basic and Sarge’s drills.

Donut looks like a cross between a football quarterback and a model. He’s got thick, wavy hair, broad shoulders, a jaw like it’s been carved from marble, and a pouting mouth half-lost under a beard. If there was a girl around, she’d probably call Donut hot, like unfairly hot, like _holy fuck_ hot.

There’s just Simmons though, who makes a startled wheezing sound, trying to remember how to breathe.

Donut frowns at him. “Are you okay? You look a little hot and bothered!” Then understanding widens his eyes. “Oh,” he says, drawing out the word in a way that shouldn’t-- doesn’t-- make Simmons feel weird at all, at least until Donut grins sympathetically and says, “I get it. You wanted some _alone time_.” He follows up the sentence with an exaggerated wink.

“What?” Simmons says blankly. Then he realizes what Donut thinks he was about to do instead of take a shower. His face gets even hotter. Now he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He’d instinctively covered himself, but now that probably looks dirty, like Donut caught him in the middle of masturbating. But if they’re at his hips, then that’s probably just confirming Donut’s depraved assumptions too. Maybe he could cross his arms, but that’s defensive and might make Donut think he’s on the right track and--

He ends up flapping his hands in Donut’s direction, trying to shoo him away without touching him. “Goddamnit, Donut, I wasn’t-- Go away!” His voice cracks. Why is Donut standing so close? It’s like he doesn’t care that they’re both naked. Fuck, he probably doesn’t even have a towel around his waist, although Simmons isn’t going to look and check.

Donut grins at him. “Aw, don’t be embarrassed! If we’re being honest with each other--”

“We’re not,” Simmons tries to say, but the words lodge in his throat as Donut leans forward.

Simmons isn’t short, but Donut is _tall_. He looms over Simmons as he lowers his voice to a cheerful, confiding whisper, a sly smile peeking out of his beard, “--then I don’t mind admitting that I spend a lot of my time in the shower killing two birds with one stone.”

Simmons tries to say something, but it’s getting hard to breathe, much less speak, when Donut keeps invading his personal space. It’s one horrible thing that they’re both naked. It’s another thing to realize that this is closest human contact Simmons has had since before Blood Gulch and Command’s order to remain in armor at all possible times. Okay, Grif occasionally slaps him on the back or nudges him with his shoulder, but that’s armor hitting armor. That’s nothing like this, when Simmons can feel the heat radiating off Donut’s body. He swallows, his stomach twisting uncomfortably.

Donut’s expression changes again. “Oh,” he says, a shorter, surprised sound. The sly look vanishes, replaced by a pleased grin. Then Donut gives him a slow, lingering once-over, so intent that it feels like a physical touch running down Simmons’ body.

Simmons finds his voice somehow. “Donut!” He means it as a protest for Donut to stop fucking groping him with his eyes, they’re teammates and besides Simmons isn’t-- But it comes out more breathless than he means, and Donut’s grin just widens.  

“I knew the boys in Basic were lying. The army _is_ just like the movies!”

Simmons promptly loses his voice again, because Donut reaches out and touches his hair. Simmons keeps his hair regulation short; Donut’s fingers brush his scalp. It’s like his brain short-circuits at the contact as Donut adds with another pout, “That pesky armor rule is a crime.”

Being cooped up in his armor for months on end in this stupid canyon has clearly broken Simmons’ brain. His body is reacting to Donut like he actually likes this, like he’s interested, which he isn’t, of course. It’s like his brain and his body have forgotten that Donut’s a guy. Donut’s fingers trail through his hair and down Simmons’ cheek. His thumb comes to rest on Simmons’ lower lip, and as slow as his once-over was, this caress feels infinitely slower. The sensation is indescribable. Simmons’ entire body shivers, and he tilts his face up just a little--

So that Donut can keep touching him, like that’s something he wants, like if Donut’s hand kept moving downwards he’d enjoy it. The thought hits Simmons like a bullet, his shocked exhale stuttering against Donut’s fingers. Panic follows, curling invisible fingers around his throat until he stops breathing and forgets how to start.

Suddenly Donut’s hand is gone, and Donut is taking a hasty step back, slipping a little on the tile. All of the warmth is gone from his face, replaced by worry. “Simmons? Simmons? Uh, listen, maybe I jumped the gun here, came on a little strong. Just, um, breathe, please?”

It takes a second for Donut’s words to register, but Simmons obeys, taking one breath, and then another. His heartbeat slows and steadies now that Donut’s put some space between them and Simmons can think clearly again. He resists the urge to touch his mouth. Blood Gulch is driving him insane, he decides. That’s the only reasonable explanation. “Uh,” he says, when he realizes Donut is still frowning. He’s embarrassed now by his reaction. His face gets hot. “Yeah, I don’t-- I’m not-- Uh.”

Okay, apparently his brain isn’t fully back online, but something in his voice makes the worry fade from Donut’s expression. Donut grins lopsidedly at him. “Right, gotcha. I’m just going to be over here, getting all that lube off me, okay?” He jerks a thumb towards the furthest shower.

“Uh, okay,” Simmons says blankly. Is Donut just going to pretend nothing happened?

Apparently he is, because Donut saunters towards the shower, a cheerful sway of his hips that has Simmons glaring after him until he realizes where exactly he’s glaring. Still, Simmons is hit by unexpected irritation at how easily Donut dismisses the misunderstanding. He has the audacity to start whistling, something high and probably catchy that will linger in Simmons’ head for days.

“I hate this place,” Simmons whispers to himself. “I hate it _so much_.” He twists the knob to ice cold.

 

* * *

 

The problem is, what’s learned can’t be unlearned. Well, unless one of Sarge’s drills actually gives Simmons brain damage someday and he loses his long-term memory. That seems more likely than it used to be, but it hasn’t happened yet. Instead Simmons is stuck with the memory of the communal showers incident, as he's labeled it in his head, with Donut’s bare face and his baffling enthusiasm for the idea of-- Well.

It makes taking showers weird. It makes _everything_ weird. Simmons keeps getting distracted during drills and attacks on the Blues, enough that even Grif notices. This place is clearly getting to him. He alters his masturbation schedule, something carefully crafted after one too many close encounters with Sarge or Grif almost catching him in the act, because he's clearly not doing it enough. That's even weirder, because Donut is like an infection in his brain. Somehow his fantasies always start out with naked models from dirty magazines, with breasts and spread legs, and detour into remembering Donut's warm fingers and broad grin.

What makes it worse is that Donut acts like nothing happened. He treats Simmons exactly the same as he did before the showers. It's ridiculous. How can Donut go from being ready to-- to-- one minute and acting like it was all some fever dream the next?

And that stupid fucking song _does_ get stuck in Simmons’ head. He keeps humming it to himself, and then realizing what he’s humming, and then biting his lips where Donut touched him. Plus, now he knows the exact shape of Donut’s mouth when he whistles, which is yet another distraction during drills whenever Donut whistles Red Army songs as encouragement.

It’s unbearable. Simmons vents his frustration by typing up a text-based game in which Donut is the villain and Simmons defeats him, but even writing it doesn’t help his mood. In fact, writing that game is a mistake, because that night Donut the Enchanter follows him into his dreams. Donut uses the Officer Hot Pants spell on him, only this time Simmons doesn’t have the Grif fat to escape. Victorious, the Enchanter smiles as he leans in close. “Ready for some alone time with me?”

The next morning, Grif actually punches Simmons in the arm as they head to the mess hall. “Dude, is Donut in your nightmares too? I get it. Officer Hot Pants and all that destroyed cake.” He shakes his head, grumbling a mournful, “So much wasted food…..”

“Um, what?” Simmons squeaks, mouth dry.

“You said Donut’s name last night. Said it a couple times. What, did you get Officer Hot Pants in repeat or something?”

“Oh,” Simmons says. Heat crawls up the back of his neck. He laughs nervously, grateful for his helmet. “Yeah. Just...the worst dream.”

“The fucking worst,” Grif agrees.

Simmons laughs again, but inwardly his embarrassment is turning to anger. What the fuck is wrong with Donut? It’s not enough that he has to mess with Simmons’ head and apparently break his brain, but now he’s invading Simmons’ dreams too? It has to stop.

He’s angry all through breakfast, and even angrier during drills as Donut whistles and laughs and runs around him and Grif and whistles encouragement. When Sarge calls an end to the drills and says, “Grif, you’re on watch. In two hours, I’m unveiling my plan to defeat those pesky Blues once and for all!” Simmons spares a second to be relieved that he's not stuck on watch duty. He knows exactly where Donut is going, even without Grif’s whine of, "Come on, Sarge, can't Donut take the watch?" to remind him.

He almost marches straight into the showers in full armor before he thinks better of it. He wants Donut to see his face and know that he’s serious. It takes him a minute to get out of his armor. By the time he’s down to his bodysuit, he can hear one of the showers running.

Simmons storms inside. He has a plan and a speech. He’s going to throw a towel at Donut so that Donut can make himself decent while they talk, since apparently he has no shame whatsoever, and then he’s going to make Donut undo whatever weird thing he planted in Simmons’ subconscious, and then everything will be--

He’s miscalculated. He wasn’t expecting Donut to be at the first shower, or that Simmons would catch him with his hands buried in his hair, his fingers working the shampoo slowly through the thick strands. Somehow Donut makes the gesture look obscene.

Simmons stops dead, paralyzed by the memory of Donut’s fingers brushing his scalp.

“Oh, hey, Simmons!” Donut says, blinking. He looks surprised. There’s a slight smile on his lips, though it isn’t the wide, sly grin of before. He adds slowly, “Um, not that I’m not flattered, but--”

But? _But_? Two things become instantly clear. First, that Donut thinks that this is Simmons’ attempt at seduction. Second, after all the bullshit Donut has put him through, Donut apparently isn’t that into him after all. Simmons wonders if it’s medically possible to have an aneurysm from sheer rage. His heart pounds in his ears, drowning out the rest of Donut’s words.

“What the _fuck_ is your problem?” he says, or tries to anyway. It comes out as a stuttering screech. He knew that Donut was annoying and an idiot, but he didn’t realize he was apparently a fucking cock-tease too. Not that Simmons actually _wants_ him, of course he doesn’t, but Donut is just going to mess with his brain and then back off?

Simmons growls. He stalks up to Donut, twisting the half-forgotten towel into knots so that he doesn’t wring Donut’s neck. Not that he’s sure he could fit his hands around Donut’s throat. When he tries to crowd Donut, though, Donut doesn’t give ground. They end up face to face, so close enough that Simmons can feel the heat radiating off Donut’s skin and count the water droplets clinging to his beard. He’s counted three before he realizes that Donut’s slight smile has broadened to a delighted grin. It makes the corner of Donut’s eyes crinkle. Simmons sucks in a breath to tell Donut to stop looking at him like that, and gets distracted by the fruity scent of Donut’s stupid non-regulation shampoo.

“On the other hand,” Donut says cheerfully, which is apparently supposed to mean something. He tugs the towel out of Simmons’ grip and tosses it aside. One of his hands closes around Simmons’ wrist when Simmons tries to stop him.

The stupid Donut the Enchanter dream comes back in technicolor and surround sound.

A choked sound escapes Simmons’ lips.

“Yeah,” Donut agrees, like Simmons actually said something, and leans in, his grin shifting to a hot, intent look. “Now...where were we?” He strokes Simmons’ hair like he did the last time.

The caress feels like lightning sparking in Simmons’ brain, frying all rational thought. His entire body shudders. He makes another noise, soft and wordless.

“Oh,” Donut says. “That’s right.” His voice is warm now, as warm as the thumb stroking across Simmons’ lip. “We were here.”

All of Simmons’ focus has narrowed to Donut’s thumb, so the hand curling around his hip is a surprise. Each finger feels like a brand, searing through the bodysuit. Simmons shudders in anticipation, but then Donut doesn’t do anything else, just keeps his hand there, like he’s holding Simmons steady as his thumb continues its slow stroking.

Simmons seethes with frustration. Donut’s still being a cock-tease, slowing things down to glacial speed like Simmons can’t handle anything else. He jerks back from Donut’s thumb and then just as quickly leans in and up.

He misjudges the angle and catches the corner of Donut’s mouth. He hastily readjusts, kissing Donut again. Donut’s surprised sound, muffled against Simmons’ mouth, gives him a vicious thrill. The beard isn’t scratchy like Simmons assumed; it’s soft even as Donut’s hand slides to the nape of his neck and pulls him closer.

Something nudges against his stomach when he stumbles forward. His gaze flicks instinctively downwards. “Oh,” he says, a high, startled squeak. If the earlier caress felt like lightning, the sight of Donut, hard and flushed all because of Simmons, feels like a tidal wave crashing onto his head. A jumbled mess of anticipation and alarm and surprise pulses through him and curls his toes against the tile. There’s a little bit of pride there, too, that he can apparently get under Donut’s skin the way Donut has for him. He licks his lips, still tingling from the kisses.

Donut stares at him. His reddened lips and the hunger in his face sparks another surge of uncertain self-satisfaction. Then Donut moves with purpose, his hands tugging at Simmons' bodysuit. “That is coming off.”

Simmons’ mouth is too dry to even utter another squeak. He just nods in agreement.

Donut’s been handling Simmons like he’s made of glass, all careful touches, but now he works his fingers under the fabric and starts to strip Simmons from the bodysuit. Simmons shivers again, this time at the easy strength in Donut’s hands. How are his hands so warm? They stroke over his skin, the heat lingering like Donut’s left invisible marks. His nails sometimes scratch when Donut tugs at the bodysuit, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to prick at his skin; every time they do, Simmons’ breath catches in his throat.

“Oh, look at you,” Donut says, all warm delight, and Simmons flushes as Donut goes down on one knee to work the bodysuit down over his thighs and to the floor.

There’s a few seconds of silence, and the corners of Donut’s eyes crinkle. He strokes the insides of Simmons’ calves, and smiles wider when Simmons sighs involuntarily at the touch. “Lean back against the wall and lift your feet.”

It takes a second for the directions to register. Then Simmons reaches out behind him, not wanting to look away from Donut’s smile. The wall’s cool and slightly wet from condensation.  He almost jams his fingers fumbling for purchase before he braces himself against the wall.

Donut tosses the bodysuit aside like he tossed the towel. Then he just stops and looks.

He looks and then he touches, running his hands up from Simmons’ knees and to his hips and then down again, pausing only to linger on freckles as though he’s counting them, touching Simmons everywhere except for the obvious until Simmons is desperate.

It’s like slow torture. Simmons breaks when Donut leans in and kisses his hip, beard tickling his stomach. “ _Donut_!” He clutches at Donut, hands tangled in his hair, ready to yank his head sideways and redirect his stupid mouth if Donut keeps being a goddamn tease.

The name comes out as a whine, but Donut beams at him like he’s said something right. In one smooth movement, Donut drops to both knees, his hands slide down to cup the back of Simmons’ thighs, and he lifts Simmons’ legs onto his shoulders. He makes it look easy, except for the way his shoulders tense and then relax as Simmons yelps and clings to him.

Now Simmons’ back is braced against the cold tile of the shower wall, his full weight on Donut’s shoulders. If he shifts to the right or the left, he’ll overbalance. It’s only Donut’s strength keeping him from sliding down to the floor. Donut holds him easily, like if he wanted, he could keep Simmons pinned there until they’re due to listen to Sarge’s latest plan. The thought makes Simmons bite his lip and want to squirm, but he can’t move in Donut’s implacable grip. Donut wouldn't be that much of a tease, would he? Desperation burns in Simmons' stomach. He tries to shift again, and earns a half-scolding, half-amused look.  

Simmons is still clutching at Donut’s hair. He feels and sees Donut lean in a second before Donut’s breath ghosts across Simmons’ hard-on. Simmons bites his lip again, hard enough that it stings, but another demanding whine escapes him. He can't take another minute of this. He tries to move again, yanking at Donut's hair, but he might as well be trying to pull a mountain closer. He's still rewarded, because Donut's laughter trembles through his body and he finally, _finally_ mouths at the tip of Simmons' dick.

“Oh fuck,” Simmons says. He barely recognizes his own voice. “Oh, fuck, that feels-- I, don’t fucking stop, you-- oh shit, I need-- _please--_ ” Donut’s tongue curls around him, and he almost levitates off Donut’s shoulders. Donut keeps him still, his fingers digging into Simmons’ thighs, but he laughs as Simmons groans in frustration. The ensuing sensation has Simmons shuddering so hard he bangs his head against the wall and sees momentary stars. When Donut pauses, Simmons growls at him. His mouth belongs to a stranger now, babbling encouragement and an endless stream of nonsense. Heat coils in his stomach, a growing urgency that has him yanking impatiently at Donut’s hair.

This time Donut relents, his lips and tongue working their slow way up Simmons’ dick.

Simmons almost comes just from how Donut looks and not just from the overwhelming sensations: the perfect shape of Donut’s mouth, the deepening flush on his face, the way he keeps his eyes half-closed in concentration except for the occasional glance upwards to judge Simmons’ reaction. Each time their gazes accidentally meet, Simmons feels it in his gut, pushing him closer to the edge. Simmons alternates between stroking Donut’s thick, soft hair and yanking on it when Donut threatens to go even slower. He slides a little, his back slick against the tile wall as he draws in a desperate breath, and Donut tightens his grip.

By the time Donut’s beard brushes the inner part of Simmons’ thighs, Simmons has been reduced to wordless moans, too turned on to be embarrassed. His thighs ache from fighting Donut’s hold. The desperate heat in his stomach has spread like wildfire until he’s surprised the sweat isn’t steaming off his or Donut’s skin. He’s so close to the edge it feels like he’s about to fall, even with Donut’s hands still steady and firm on him.

He tries to breathe, to say something, but all that escapes his lips is a moan that catches in his throat as he comes. Donut’s fingers dig into his skin, the tiny pricks of pain almost unnoticed as Simmons shudders through the aftershocks.

He’s still catching his breath when Donut lowers him to the tile. The cold floor is almost a relief against his hot skin. He props himself against the wall, feeling boneless. He blinks, trying to convince his eyes to focus. When they do, he stares at the flecks of cum caught in Donut’s beard. There’s a ghost of an aftershock at the sight, and Simmons swallows down a giddy, post-orgasm euphoric laugh. He can’t remember feeling this good.  

It’s only when Donut groans that Simmons realizes that Donut’s got his own dick in his fist and is jerking himself off, working himself over with quick, rough touches. Simmons keeps staring, mesmerized. Donut’s thumb rubs over his tip, an echo of his thumb against Simmons’ lips, except this gesture has a desperate clumsiness to it, like Donut can’t wait a second longer to get off.

Donut breathes hard, his eyes shut. His broad shoulders flex with every stroke. His hair’s a tangled mess from Simmons pulling on it, falling into his face as he rocks into his hand. When he comes, the cum coats his fingers and splatters onto the tile and Simmons’ chest.

The cum’s warm, but it has the effect of ice cold water. The euphoria vanishes. Hysteria replaces it. Simmons' stomach twists as the realization of what he and Donut just did loops on endless repeat in his head. Donut’s mouth was on his _dick_. He starts to wipe at the cum, then realizes he’s just smearing it on his skin. “Oh fuck,” he says tightly. “I, uh, I, uh--” This was not how the plan was supposed to go. This was, in fact, the opposite of his plan. He casts his mind frantically back over the last half-hour, trying to figure out where he went wrong. Should he have cornered Donut in the barracks instead? But the beds were there. Maybe he should have--

“Whoops!” Donut says cheerfully. “Good thing we’re already in the shower, right?”

Simmons tries to answer, but all that comes out is a low, panicked, “Uuuuuuuuuuh.”

Donut stands, and Simmons hit by another wave of panic. Donut’s standing too close. It’s like a mirror reversal of what just happened, Donut’s dick inches from his face. Simmons can smell the sweat and cum, so strong that he can almost taste in his mouth, the way Donut tasted him, and yeah, Donut needs to _back up._  

Simmons scrambles upright, slipping a little in his haste. He flinches when Donut reaches out to steady him and jerks back, his back hitting the wall.

Donut stops. A puzzled look replaces the self-satisfied grin he’s been wearing. He tilts his head, studying Simmons’ face, then says slowly, a half-mollifying note in his voice, “Look, I know it got a little messy by the end, but that’s what a nice hot shower is for--”

“I’m not gay!” The words bubble up from Simmons’ twisting stomach.

“Okay? I’ve been with bi guys before--”

“I’m not bi!”

Donut’s quiet for a second, still looking confused, and then he brightens. “You’re pansexual? That’s--”

“I’m straight!” Simmons yells.

Donut blinks. “Are you _sure_?” he asks, and then his mouth twists a little, like he wants to take the question back. There’s a tinge of disappointment as well that catches Simmons by surprise, and he realizes that Donut had enjoyed it too.

Well, obviously he’d enjoyed it, the evidence of that is drying and starting to itch on Simmons skin, but-- Right. Simmons should answer the question. “Yes!” he says, voice cracking, even a voice in the back of his head points out that enjoying a blowjob from Donut that much is probably pretty gay. Simmons gives a mental shake of his head. There’s a huge difference between being gay and just being desperate, and clearly Blood Gulch has made him the latter. He crosses his arms, realizes he’s smearing more of the cum on his skin, and hastily uncrosses them. “There’s plenty of historical evidence that straight guys will sleep with men if there’s no women around!”

“Uh huh,” Donut says.

Simmons flushes at the skeptical tone. “It’s like the Navy, Donut!”  

Donut actually rolls his eyes, but the disappointment is gone from his face. He gives Simmons a searching look. “But it was good, though?”

“I,” Simmons says, and snaps his mouth shut. He feels like he’s walked into a trap he set himself. He can feel the blush spread down his neck.  He very carefully doesn’t think about how amazing it was, doesn’t replay any of it in his mind, and finally mumbles, “I mean...you know, it, uh, was pretty good.”

That familiar grin is back, the corners of Donut’s eyes crinkling again. He looks pleased.

Flustered, Simmons starts to snap, “And it was good for you!” but somehow it comes out as a question instead of a rebuttal, his voice rising on the last word without meaning to.

Donut laughs. Simmons starts to bristle before he realizes it’s not a mocking laugh, but something warmer. “Yeah, Simmons. It was pretty good.” Donut studies him again for a second and then adds, “In fact, if you wanted to do it again sometime-- or not, up to you--”

Simmons is instantly irritated. Apparently Donut is _always_ a tease. Simmons wonders if he’s like this with everyone, offering them something with one hand and ready to snatch it back with the other, acting like nothing’s a big deal. “Maybe.”  

Donut grins like the maybe is a definite yes. Simmons would get more annoyed at the assumption, but then Donut shifts his weight from one foot to the other, scratching at his thigh.

The gesture reminds Simmons that he’s covered in sweat and cum. His skin itches. He resists the urge to start scratching. He needs a long shower. “I, uh, should--” Simmons waves vaguely towards one of the other showers.

“Right,” Donut says, still grinning. His eyes dip lower, a faint heat rekindling in his expression, and Simmons realizes that he’s looking at the stains.

Simmons sidles hastily to another shower before Donut can press him on that maybe. He feels Donut’s gaze on him, like one last touch between his shoulder-blades, his skin prickling and itchy all at once. He’s definitely not disappointed when Donut doesn’t follow him.

Donut begins to whistle a second before he starts his shower.

Simmons wishes he wouldn’t. He doesn’t need another ear-worm, and the whistling keeps making him think of Donut’s mouth, and thinking of Donut’s mouth makes his brain want to replay the last half-hour in explicit detail. His stomach dips. He yanks at the knob and steps into the cold spray with relief. He needs a major revision of his schedule. Isn’t Sarge always saying that routine hands your head on a platter on the Blues and that habits will get you killed? Perhaps his life is a little too set in stone.

Maybe he’ll throw the occasional morning shower into his schedule, he thinks, humming along to Donut’s tune. Just for the unpredictability factor.


End file.
